


remember me love, when i'm reborn (as a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn)

by iliveinfantasies



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Gen, Hicsqueak, Other, Some mentions of abuse, Young hicsqueak, young hecate, young pippa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 10:40:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17364473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iliveinfantasies/pseuds/iliveinfantasies
Summary: Hecate wanted to tell Pippa how much she loved the way magic fell from her lips like sounds. Not the word magic, of course, but magic itself; the lulls and cantors, letters weaving themselves together into phrases, notes climbing and dipping and growing, blending like ingredients until the made whole, complete potions. As though by simply speaking elements aloud, she could actually will them into being; as though no book, no magical limit, could stop her from doing exactly what she wanted to do.Hecate spoke magic like it was made of glass: broken and cracking and liable to shred her skin the more she moved her mouth. Like a harsh, biting thing, something that carried as much danger as it did ability; something that, despite Hecate’s absolute need, her compulsion to learn more mix more read more cast more be better be the best--might actually someday combust, right there, right under her skin.------------------------Or, Pippa Pentangle has synesthesia, and keeps it quiet, and Hecate isn't the only odd one out.





	remember me love, when i'm reborn (as a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn)

**Author's Note:**

> CW: mentions of abuse, bullying
> 
> Hi everyone. I'm giving this fic a go. I was thinking about the color of magic, a while back, and realized that might be part of my synesthesia talking (my senses are all crossed, so I associate numbers and letters with different colors, I see numbers as physical things in space, I see time, etc). And I thought, what if part of Pippa's love of color is because she also has it?
> 
> So, I'm writing it. But I'm also a sucker for angst, so we're starting with part of Hecate's sad childhood. 
> 
> Hopefully you all like this beginning to a chapter fic!
> 
> Visit me on Tumblr at iliveinfantasylife, I love hearing from you guys!

Hecate hadn’t been born afraid of the dark.

It was something that she’d developed, swiftly and quietly, the very first time that her father had taught her that little witches were to be seen, and not heard; that they were to listen, and behave, and obey, and were, in no uncertain circumstances, allowed to talk back.

Allowed to lose control of their magic, in any way.

Hecate’s father was the sort of man who could not tolerate any laziness, nor any lack of discipline; he was strict, quietly stern, and endlessly devoted to his study of The Craft. 

And when Hecate, four years old and fresh off the heels of an overly-complex laughter potion, tripped, and fell, and spilled an entire jar or spider’s eyes on the floor of their study, he glided over to Hecate’s giggling form and stood over her, looming and vast and dangerous, and smacked her hard on the hand.

“ _ Sloppy, _ ” he hissed, frowning deeply, as Hecate’s mother hovered around the edges of the room, worry outlining her eyes. “Lazy, and wild, and out of control. Unbecoming of a witch of  _ your status _ .” Then he took Hecate by the arm--black-clad, even then--and lock her into the closet in the potions storage room at the back room of the house. A “strengthening exercise,” he called it, and told her that the sooner she worked on her  _ form _ , on getting a handle of herself, her magic, the sparking, shimmering thing that blew wild in her veins, the sooner she would be able to get herself out.

“We are an old witching family, Hecate,” he would say, his voice sliding silkily under the door, slipping around Hecate’s ribs and pulling, tightly, like a band around her lungs. “And you would do well to remember that.”

The lock would click, the scraping of the metal dissonant and harsh, like nails scraping along her skin. Hecate would shut her eyes, and breathe in, and attempt to hone her magic to the sharp, steely needlepoint that her father thought it would be.

But the strands of her magic were wild, burning writhing things, that flailed under her grasp; and her father would return, hours later, and glance disapprovingly down at the the red rims of Hecate’s eyes, the frayed state of her sleeves where she’d worn them down with her fingertips.

“Next time,” he would mutter to the air, and usher Hecate out of the closet, leading her to her next set of lessons, fear falling in waves from her skin.

* * *

 

When Hecate started at Amulet’s Academy, she hadn’t entirely known what to expect.

She had read books about school, of course; fanciful things, hidden between the pages of ancient textbooks, tales of children and feasts and bright, crackling fireplaces that her father would have surely punished her for reading had he caught her doing it. But her childhood, despite this vague knowledge--particularly once her mother had died--had been spent primarily surrounded by adults. Her father, mostly; though occasionally another adult from her father’s coven would appear, stiff and stern and sporting the same rough, harsh scent of ash and myrrh that made the inside of her throat burn. 

As such, she hadn’t spent a lot of time around other children, save for those who, on rare occasions, got stuck trailing behind their parents during one of the monthly business meetings that took place at the Hardbroom’s. Even then, the other children wanted very little to do with serious, impassive Hecate; they’d huddle in the corners of her house, whispering to one another behind their palms, while Hecate pressed her face into the crumbling pages of ancient textbooks, breathing in the musty scent of yellowed paper and dust.

So in a sense, Hecate had anticipated that things would be different. 

But she hadn’t anticipated the ire, the ferocity with which the other girls at school would feed their egos by digging into Hecate’s own, harsh and swift and unyielding, tearing into her chest like claws. Hadn’t anticipated the ways in which the words would dig, and cut, and twist holes into the space between her ribs, boring their way toward her heart. A comment here, a stray shove there. _Stuck up_ they’d whisper, _and sallow._ _Her dress,_ they’d murmur between classes, echoed voices striking the corners of the half-empty hallways. _Her hair, too. Look at that. It’s like she doesn’t_ want _to fit in._ In the mess hall, up the stairs. _Well, I heard her father is a dark wizard._ _They say her mother died.  I bet he killed her. I bet she’s that way, too. Look at all the extra spells she does, those spellbooks she’s always reading. Dangerous,_ they’d breathe, _and over obsessed._

For the most part, Hecate did her best to ignore them. She wasn’t there to make friends, after all; she’d gotten along just fine without them until now, and she certainly didn’t need the girls she met at school.  _ Simpering, absurd things, _ she would say to herself, and she would tuck herself into the dark corners of the library, 

_ I don’t need them I don’t need them I don’t need them  _ she would repeat, a quick, murmured mantra to herself in the dark, until she almost believed it.

Almost.

* * *

 

Perhaps the most unexpected part of school was the girl that sat behind her in her classes.

In the second row, third from the left, in every class, every time.

Except chanting, of course, where Hecate found herself falling toward the back, pale cheeks tinted pink every time her voice slipped on a note, raspy and quiet from lack of use. There, Pippa’s voice rang out, magic hanging of every note like icicles, clear and glittering like liquid glass.

And it was in this way that Hecate found her feelings toward Pippa slipping from furiosity toward her rival to vague dislike to sheer curiosity, all without ever saying a word.

* * *

 

Hecate wanted to tell Pippa how much she loved the way magic fell from her lips like sounds. Not the  _ word _ magic, of course, but magic itself; the lulls and cantors, letters weaving themselves together into phrases, notes climbing and dipping and growing, blending like ingredients until the made whole, complete potions. As though by simply speaking elements aloud, she could actually will them into being; as though no book, no magical limit, could stop her from doing exactly what she wanted to do.

Hecate spoke magic like it was made of glass: broken and cracking and liable to shred her skin the more she moved her mouth. Like a harsh, biting thing, something that carried as much danger as it did ability; something that, despite Hecate’s absolute need, her compulsion to  _ learn more mix more read more cast more be  _ better  _ be the  _ best _ \-- _ might actually someday combust, right there, right under her skin.

Pippa, though, wrapped herself around each word, carefully forming each syllable, each letter, each silent sound until it became a soft, pliable thing. Like magic was something to be savored, rather than controlled.

Like it was something beautiful, and moving, and not the sharp, honed blade her father made her think it was.

But she couldn’t say any of those things. Couldn’t bring herself to approach Pippa, couldn’t make herself breathe the words to anyone but her own familiar, through the spaces between her fingers pressed against her lips.

Couldn’t bring herself to  _ need  _ anyone, want anyone in any type of way, be interested in anyone. She was interested in the girl, for some godforsaken reason, and she absolutely hated herself for it. She felt this strange keening in her chest, this need to know  _ more,  _ to learn pieces of this girl who came  _ just  _ behind her in almost every subject, who spoke music into pictures in the air, who everyone seemed to love and admire and adore but always seemed just a bit on the outside, somehow, never keening to any specific group of girls.

And this interest, this need, scared Hecate, far, far more than her father ever had.


End file.
